“Those are parasites!” Andemon replied, glaring at F’lar, badly disillusioned and angry. “We’ve been trying to rid the southern parts of this peninsula of these larvae for centuries.” He grimaced with distaste as he watched F’lar carefully pick up the grubs and deposit them back into the nearest tub. “They’re as pernicious and indestructible as Igen sandworms and not half as useful. Why, let them get into a field and every plant begins to droop and die.”
“There’s not an unhealthy plant here,” F’lar protested, gesturing at the burgeoning growths all around.
Andemon stared at him. F’lar moved, grabbing a handful of soil from each tub as he circled, showing the grubs as proof.
“It’s impossible,” Andemon insisted, the shadow of his earlier fear returning.
“Don’t you recall, F’lar,” Lessa said, “when we first brought the grubs here, the plants did seem to droop?”
“They recovered. All they needed was water!”
“They couldn’t!” Andemon forgot his revulsion enough to dig into another tub as if to prove to himself that F’lar was wrong. “There’re no grubs in this one!” he said in triumph.
“That’s never had any. I used it to check the others. And I must say, the plants don’t look as green or healthy as the other tubs.”
Andemon stared around. “Those grubs are pests. We’ve been trying to rid ourselves of them for hundreds of Turns.”
“Then I suspect, good Master Andemon,” F’lar said with a gentle, rueful smile, “that farmers have been working against Pern’s best interests.”
The Masterfarmer exploded into indignant denials of that charge. It took all Robinton’s diplomacy to calm him down long enough for F’lar to explain.
“And you mean to tell me that those larvae, those grubs, were developed and spread on purpose?” Andemon demanded of the Harper who was the only one in the room he seemed inclined to trust now. “They were meant to spread, bred by the same ancestors who bred the dragons?”
“That’s what we believe,” Robinton said. “Oh, I can appreciate your incredulity. I had to sleep on the notion for several nights. However, if we check the Records, we find that, while there is no mention that dragonmen will attack the Red Star and clear it of Thread, there is the strong, recurring belief that Thread will one day not be the menace it is now. F’lar is reasonably . . .”
“Not reasonably, Robinton; completely sure,” F’lar interrupted. “N’ton’s been going back to Southern—jumping between time, as far back as seven Turns, to check on Threadfalls in the southern continent. Wherever he’s probed, there’re grubs in the soil which rise when Thread falls and devour it. That’s why there have never been any burrows in Southern. The land itself is inimical to Thread.”
In the silence, Andemon stared at the tips of his muddy boots.
“In the Farmercrafthall Records, they mention specifically that we are to watch for these grubs.” He lifted troubled eyes to the others. “We always have. It was our plain duty. Plants wither wherever grub appears.” He shrugged in helpless confusion. “We’ve always rooted them out, destroyed the larval sacks with—” and he sighed, “flame and agenothree. That’s the only way to stop the infestations.
“Watch for the grubs, the Records say,” Andemon repeated and then suddenly his shoulders began to shake, his whole torso became involved. Lessa caught F’lar’s eyes, concerned for the man. But he was laughing, if only at the cruel irony. “Watch for the grubs, the Records say. They do not, they do not say destroy the grubs. They say most emphatically ‘watch for the grubs.’ So we watched. Aye, we have watched.”
The Harper extended the wine bottle to Andemon.
“That’s a help, Harper. My thanks,” Andemon said, wiping his lips with the back of one hand after a long pull at the bottle.
“So someone forgot to mention why you were to watch the grubs, Andemon,” F’lar said, his eyes compassionate for the man’s distress. “If only Sograny’d been as reasonable. Once, so many men must have known why you were to watch for the grubs, they didn’t see a need for further implicit instructions. Then the Holds started to grow and people drifted apart. Records got lost or destroyed, men died before they’d passed on the vital knowledge they possessed.” He looked around at the tubs. “Maybe they developed those grubs right here in Benden Weyr. Maybe that’s the meaning of the diagram on the wall. There’s so much that has been lost.”
“Which will never be lost again if the Harpercraft has any influence,” said Robinton. “If all men, Hold, Craft, Weyr have full access to every skin—” he held up his hand as Andemon started to protest, “well, we’ve better than skin to keep Records on. Bendarek now has a reliable, tough sheet of his wood pulp that holds ink, stacks neatly and is impervious to anything except fire. We can combine knowledge and disseminate it.”
Andemon looked at the Harper, his eyes puzzled. “Master Robinton, there are some matters within a Craft that must remain secret or . . .”
“Or we lose a world to the Thread, is that it, Andemon? Man, if the truth about those grubs hadn’t been treated like a Craft secret, we’d have been hundreds of Turns free of Thread by now.”
Andemon gasped suddenly, staring at F’lar. “And dragonmen—we wouldn’t need dragonmen?”
“Well, if men kept to their Holds during Threadfall, and grubs devoured what fell to the ground, no, you wouldn’t need dragonmen,” F’lar replied with complete composure.
“But dragonmen are su-supposed to fight Thread—” the Farmer was stuttering with dismay.
“Oh, we’ll be fighting Thread for a while yet, I assure you. We’re not in any immediate danger of unemployment. There’s a lot to be done. For instance, how long before an entire continent can be seeded with grubs?”
Andemon opened and closed his mouth futilely. Robinton indicated the bottle in his hand, pantomimed a long swig. Dazedly the Farmer complied. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Why, for Turn upon Turn, we’ve watched for those grubs—exterminating them, razing an entire field if it got infected. Spring’s when the larval sacks break and we’d be . . .”
He sat down suddenly, shaking his head from side to side.
“Get a grip on yourself, man,” F’lar said, but it was his attitude which caused Andemon the most distress.
“What—what will dragonmen do?”
“Get rid of Thread, of course. Get rid of Thread.”
Had F’lar been a feather less confident, F’nor would have had trouble maintaining his composure. But his half-brother must have some plan in mind. And Lessa looked as serene as—as Manors could.
Fortunately Andemon was not only an intelligent man, he was tenacious. He had been confronted with a series of disclosures that both confused and disturbed basic precepts. He must reverse a long-standing Craft practice. He must rid himself of an inborn, carefully instilled prejudice, and he must accept the eventual abdication of an authority which he had good reason to respect and more reason to wish to perpetuate.
He was determined to resolve these matters before he left the Weyr. He questioned F’lar, F’nor, the Harper, N’ton and Manora when he learned she’d been involved in the project. Andemon examined all the tubs particularly the one which had been left alone. He conquered his revulsion and even examined the grubs carefully, patiently uncoiling a large specimen, as if it were a new species entirely. In a certain respect, it was.
Andemon was very thoughtful as he watched the unharmed larva burrow quickly back into the tub dirt from which he’d extracted it.
“One wishes fervently,” he said, “to find a release from our long domination by Thread. It is just—just that the agency which frees us is . . .”
“Revolting?” the Harper suggested obligingly.
Andemon regarded Robinton a moment “Aye, you’re the man with words, Master Robinton. It is rather leveling to think that one will have to be grateful to such a—such a lowly creature. I’d rather be grateful to dragons.” He gave F’lar a rather abashed grin.
“You’re not a Lord Holder!” said Lessa, wryly, drawing a chuckle from everyone.
“And yet,” Andemon went on, letting a handful of soil dribble from his fist, “we have taken the bounties of this rich earth too much for granted. We are from it, part of it, sustained by it. I suppose it is only mete that we are protected by it. If all goes well.”
He brushed his hand
off on the wherhide trousers and with an air of decision turned to F’lar. “I’d like to run a few experiments of my own, Weyrleader. We’ve tubs and all at the Farmercrafthall . . .”
“By all means,” F’lar grinned with relief. “We’ll cooperate in every way. Grubs, Threads on request. But you’ve solved the one big problem I’d foreseen.”
Andemon raised his eyebrows in polite query.
“Whether or not the grubs were adaptable to northern conditions.”
“They are, Weyrleader, they are.” The Farmer was grimly sardonic.
“I shouldn’t think that would be the major problem, F’lar,” F’nor said.
“Oh?” The quiet syllable was almost a challenge to the brown rider. F’nor hesitated, wondering if F’lar had lost confidence in him, despite what Lessa had said earlier.
“I’ve been watching Master Andemon, and I remember my own reaction to the grubs. It’s one thing to say, to know, that these are the answer to Thread. Another—quite another to get the average man to accept it. And the average dragonrider.”
Andemon nodded agreement and, judging by the expression on the Harper’s face, F’nor knew he was not the only one who anticipated resistance.